


Whether You Can Fly

by brieflybe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Leah on the Offbeat - Becky Albertalli, Love Simon (2018), Simon vs. the Homo Sapiens Agenda - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, Crossover, Hogwarts AU, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-06-28 18:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15712362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brieflybe/pseuds/brieflybe
Summary: He is truly an idiot. Who forgets his best kept secret at the freakin' library? Not a great secret keeper, that's who. This is how You-know-who used to find people, probably. Because of people like Simon, who were morons.A Hogwarts AU





	1. Chapter 1

They are both so calm, Simon barely realizes that he was just barely saved from blackmail. Martin just stands there, like the idiot he is, empty handed and impatient, as if he thinks that Bram is rude for interrupting him, while Bram frowns at both of them, clutching at Simon's letters as if they don't hold each and every one of Simon's secrets. As is they're a tangible thing, a thing outside of Simon's head, a thing visible enough to – well, ruin his life, probably.

"What's going on in here?" Bram asks, conversationally, as if he's genuinely interested, as if he's not aware of Simon's – situation. Of the position that he is in. About thirty seconds ago, and four minutes into Martin laying out his sordid proposal, Bram had turned up from behind a wall of books near the back, mouth pulled into a tight line, wand raised. So, he had witnessed all of this, which is just… great. It's great.

Simon has dedicated a very moderate amount of thought to Bram Greenfield up to this point. A guy who Sometimes joins Garret at their lunch table even though he is a Ravenclaw (and Garret is a Gryffindor, and really is only there for Leah, who's a Slytherin – truly, this is an interhouse chaos), a guy who doesn't talk much, doesn't smile much, but is probably smart, and possibly has a nice smile. Simon does not know enough about him to realize if he's in danger, still. If he's better off dealing with Martin alone, or if this is a good thing. Secrets, in general, are the epitome of self-sabotage. One does not wish for help. One wishes to be left alone.

"The fuck are you doing?" Martin asks, brilliantly, because Martin is one of those people who does not know when to stop, ever. Like, if he was a storm, a tsunami, human kind would be extinct by now, and he would stand there, wondering where everyone had gone to. "We were talking."

Bram's smile is this insincere twist of his mouth, as if he would rather be anywhere else, really. He probably does. Simon's closeted gay crisis and blackmail extravaganza is probably the worst party in town – Simon is most definitely not having any fun. "This conversation seemed to be progressing toward hostile territory," Bram interjects, almost apologetically. "Regarding a particular stack of parchments who belongs to one of you but the other has taken hold of. As a prefect, I saw fit to get involved."

Simon blinks at him. Because, yeah, that is one way to put it.

Martin shakes his head. The three of them are in the library, but right at the back, where there are children books, books written by muggles (just one shelf, of course, who's been repeatedly vandalized), books about gardening. Nobody ever comes here for anything but impure intentions. A muggle born student had tried to smuggle a computer there once – the device exploded. There are still scorch marks on tiles to Simon's right. Undoubtedly, it is a shady place to be. Why is he there again? Oh, right. Blackmail. "This is not what you think." Martin tells him calmly. "I was returning Simon's notes to him."

Bram raises an unimpressed eyebrow. This is the most expressive Simon has ever seen him. He seems… tense. That is, he squares his shoulders, tilts his chin up, and he's not looking at Simon, his eyes are focused somewhere around Martin's forehead. Simon has heard stories about this – Bram the prefect, calm yet determined, always helpful, always fair. At present, Bram's fingers are clutched around Simon's letters, and Simon wishes that everything would catch fire, except that Bram is an innocent bystander, and does not deserve to be caught in the crossfire of Simon's drama. Except that he wants the letters back.

"It seems as if you were refusing to return Simon's parchments to him." Bram tells him quietly. And Simon hates this, the mechanics of bullying, the fact that he is not only being blackmailed about his dear diary content, but about  –

Well, yeah.

He is truly an idiot. Who forgets his best kept secret at the freakin' library? Not a great secret keeper, that's who. This is how You-know-who used to find people, probably. Because of people like Simon, who were morons.

Martin shakes his head. "I just borrowed it. He can have them back." He shrugs, as if there was nothing shady about the situation. "I don't care anyway, I mean, I told him that I don't –" He swallows. "It's nothing like that. I was only asking him for help."

Simon opens his mouth to respond, then closes it. Bram's presence paralyzes him somehow, rendering him useless. He's at a risk of being exposed. He cannot be too careful – clearly, he wasn't so far. And while Bram had the best of intentions, surely, Simon had wanted that particular door to his closet shut. 

So he barely hears Martin when he says: "Anyway, he can have all of it back, I took pictures already."

"Pictures?" Bram asks.

Simon's heart stops dead.

"You know, of the material. I told you, I was only asking him for help." He's smiling slightly, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Think of it as a cooperation between houses, yeah? A covenant between a Hufflepuff and a Slytherin."

Bram stares Martin down, mouth slightly agape, but there is nothing to be done, really. Bram might be a fair, kind, and benevolent prefect, but life wasn't – life fucking sucked.

"So we'll talk later, Simon?" Martin asks him, and after a few beats of silence, Simon realizes the bastard is actually awaiting a response.

"Fuck you," he tells him, dumbfounded.

Bram just stairs at him, as if Marvin had shed light on some deep-rooted suspicions Bram has had about the worst of humanity. Simon wonders – he wonders what he knows. What he's heard. "Right, well, I'll be off then –" And Martin leaves, tripping over a copy of Anne From Green Gables on the way out, because why the fuck not.

"Fifteen point from Slytherin," Bram trails after him, weekly, staring at his hands.

Which, fuck that, Simon's turmoil is worth more than – it's worth at least – he wants to smash Slytherin's stupid green hourglass to pieces over Martin's stupid head. But whatever. So much for peace and unity amongst houses. Some much for Simon's peace of mind.  

"Simon –" Bram starts, and Simon wishes, with every fiber of his being, that Bram would not – he wishes for a memory spell. For a Time Turner. For Blue, to be here, and maybe fix this for him. To share this new and horrible thing that had befallen him.

"I wish I knew how to apparate out of here," he blurts out, which was a relatively honest thing to say. That is, _I wish that I could disappear._

Bram blinks at him. "You can't apparate in or out of the castle's grounds," he said slowly, as if afraid of imparting more bad news to Simon.

Simon does not care. Simon's hands are clenched into fists, and he's currently shaking. "This is bullshit." He manages.

"I think it's for security purposes –" Bram begins, voice gentle, before realizing what Simon meant. "Oh. Yeah." He swallows. Then, carefully – "Was he – I mean." He bites his lower lip. "What does he want from you?"

That's when Simon's shoulders sag. He lets himself slide slowly down to the floor, back against a fairly unstable bookshelf, and sighs. Whatever, you know? If he was going to fall, he might as well have witnesses for the injustice. "He wants me to set him up with a friend of mine," Simon explains, just barely. Because it's so ridiculous. Because who does that? Harry Potter has beaten Lord Voldemort on the grounds of this very castle, and Simon is being blackmailed over a pen pal. "Abby."

"Oh," is Bram's eloquent response. His fingers are pulled briefly to his prefect badge, tapping it once, twice, falling back down.

Simon's chest constricts in sudden panic. "You can't report him." He swallows. "You won't, won't you? I don't know what you heard. But this isn't just about me, and I'm not ready to – I can't let him…" he trails off. Speaking about himself without coming out of the closet has been complicated, for the past month. There are certain words lodged down his throat, and he can't breathe through them sometimes. He couldn't think sometimes, with the same sort of words pushing against the back of his head, inside his lungs, his heart –

Had nothing to do with this. This is not that sort of situation, not anymore.

As Simon lifts his gaze to stare Bram down, sort of like a terrified cat would, he wonders whether Bram feels sorry for him. He wonders why he, himself, did not think to use the Accio charm, while Bram had. He remembers, briefly, Leah, tilting her head to the side while skimming through their third-year homework. 'So what it means,' she announced, 'is that witches and wizards did nothing while muggles burned supposed-witches and homosexuals on the stake, just because they, themselves, could get away with it.' He thinks about a witch, laughing her way through cool flames, while besides her, a person was honest-to-god burning in hell fire. About how one of them had a choice, and the other didn't. He feels sick. "Fuck," he says. "Fuck."

"Simon –" Bram starts.

But Simon is done with conversations alluding to his supposed sexuality, ill and well-meaning alike. He is done with this stupid library, where Madam Pince is willing to block absent whispers about school work but is unable to spot with goddamn blackmail. He is just done.

"I have to go," he says, startling Bram, then moving, moving, pushing rapidly past him. He thinks Bram was calling after him, but he's not sure. It doesn't matter, really. What matters is that he has a problem.

"Simon!" Bram is definitely calling after him, and Simon doesn't get it, what it is that people want from him. He stops, turns around. "What?"

"Your letters," Bram says, before shoving the stack of parchments into Simon's hands. He seems relieved, almost, as if something about the combination of ink and paper and Simon's secrets was catching.

Simon is such a fucking idiot. "Thanks," he tells Bram.

 Then he's once again leaving. He wished that he was a better flyer, that he had a broom, so that he could put any distance between himself and this castle, himself and the ground. He wishes that he had a time turner, so that this wouldn't have happened, or an invisibility cloak, so he could disappear. Magic is useless to him, he thinks bitterly, running down the halls of Hogwarts' school of witchcraft and wizardry. It won’t help him with this one.  

 

He sees his secret everywhere. In the tilt of Leah's head at the dinner table, or in the way Abby hugs him as they say separate for their different common rooms, the way one obscure ghost passes right through him on his way down, substancesless and cold, sending chills down his spine. Hogwarts is not a place where your private thoughts and feelings are safe, and Simon is more exposed than ever. He should have asked Bram not to say anything. Begged, even. He should not have just left like that. But he didn't, and he had, and now he can't bring himself to fix this.

There is an added weight to his sexuality now, accompanied by blackmail. Suddenly, it's shameful, even though he swore that it wasn't. Being blackmailed, surely, is shameful. Allowing himself to be – instead of leaping cheerfully out of the closet without a care in the world, and fuck you very much, Martin. Surely that's the right thing to do. But Simon is an Hufflepuff, and sometimes it seems to mean that he can't be loud in any way that matter. He wonders what Bram thinks of him. He wonders what Blue would have done.   

He does not fall asleep that night. Instead, he hides beneath the covers of his bed, rereading Blue's previous letters, memorizing, as if preparing for the day when he'll have no choice but to burn them, even though he knows that he never will.

Simon had never, in his life, wished to be straight, but he does wish to have nothing to hide. Secrets are the catalyst of shame. They make things bigger then they have any right to be. And Simon is not ashamed, but Martin must think that he is, Bram Greenfield must think that he is, and Simon is not about to spring out of any closet to prove them wrong, so there you go.

At least Bram didn't appear to be a homophobic dick. Cute Boys who are homophobic dicks truly represent everything that's unjust in the world.

 

Morning came at him like a hammer, the notion of the following day and everything it might bring looming over him, making him wish he could turn around and sleep through his sixth and seventh years. He never wished to leave Hogwarts before, but now – really, he just wants his iPod. He would give away almost everything right now, if he could just have that.  

He dresses slowly, taking special, useless care with his robes, with his black-yellow tie. Would a Gryffindor tell Martin to stuff it, or are closet-cases a recognized phenomenon in each of the four houses? He supposes that they are. Though a part of him wishes that he had in him the recklessness to just jinx Martin into all hell, maybe punch the guy right in his stupid, righteous, blackmailing face. That's what a none-Hufflepuff would have done, surely. But no, he's _nice._ He's _good-natured._  He _volunteers_ to help Professor Sprout off hours and knows the House Elves by name.

He sighs, running a tired hand through his hair, before retrieving his backpack and making his way to breakfast without waiting for or talking to anyone. It's like, 6:30 AM. Because this is how Simon rolls. The great hall, of course, is almost entirely empty, except for – oh well, that's just great. Simon wished he could talk to Leah. Even without telling her anything, she has this way of – understanding the world, of pointing out injustices to him. With her, he understands that some things are not his fault. He wishes to see Nick or Abby, so that they could make him laugh, except – the hell is he supposed to do with Abby now?

But instead, there are only a few scattered insomniacs, Professor Sprout, since her plants require care that does not adhere to human sleep schedule, and – Bram Greenfield, sitting by himself at the Ravenclaw table, staring at his oatmeal as if trying to understand the point of it all. So that's… great. That is just fantastic. Simon is not scared of Bram Greenfield, of course. That would be unfair. Simon is just – generally scared.

Should he sit next to him? It would be weird if he didn't, probably, they usually sit together, as a strange, interhouse group (ironically, it was Leah who initiated the arrangement. They were in their second year, and one of the girls in her room had told her that she can't befriend a Hufflepuff. And so she's been sitting with Simon at his table ever since. It all kind of escalated from there). They never actually spent any time alone, though, excluding the previous day. What would they even talk about? Are there any other topics of conversations for them besides Simon's sexuality? Does Bram even want Simon to sit next to him?

Except who walks into the great hall next, if not the great blackmailer himself, jerk supreme, one of the villains from Buffy the Vampire Slayer season 6, Martin Addison. And since Simon was not about to be caught alone by him again, not so soon, anyway, he accepts his fate and makes his way resolutely towards Bram, who lifts his head just in time to see Simon marching in his direction. Bram's eyes widen, then, his mouth opening up, just a bit, as if to say something, but Simon can't stop, not until he's safely seated at Bram's right, half hidden by dark curls and wide shoulders. "Morning," he exhales, sending one last look towards the Slytherin table. God, if Leah knew, she would eviscerate the guy.

But instead, it's Bram who knows, and is currently following Simon's gaze, eyes darkening slightly, before returning to his eggs. "He won't approach you here," Bram promises, and Simon thinks – well, that at least his secrets are in the hands of someone who's soft spoken, who's able to hold things in.

"Yeah," Simon agrees. "That's the idea." Then, understanding how that must have sounded, he adds: "Not that I don't like sitting with you – ah, I mean, we always sit together, right?"

Bram gaze reveals nothing as he slowly nods. "Sure." Then, politely, "Would you like some coffee?"

"God, yes." Simon says immediately. "Barely slept, you know? I –" He then stops himself, embarrassed. Somehow, a part of him feels as if he's not supposed to show how nervous he is about Martin. As if as a Gay Wizard, he should have been prepared for this sort of situation, or at least accept its likelihood and not whine about it like a child. Like, maybe he should have gotten a blackmail insurance. He swallows, then changes the subject. "How come you're up?"

Because even though Bram doesn't look as… spent, as Simon must look, he seems – well, drained. Fatigued. He shoulders are slumped in a way that makes his entire body pull inwards. Simon sort of want to make him smile, but doesn't feel qualified at the moment. He feels – panicked, and self-centered, and sad. He wishes he could talk to Blue, except he can't actually tell Blue about any of this. He wishes, still, to have his iPod with him. 

Bram shrugs. "Had to study before practice." Right, Quidditch. Sure. Simon considers asking to tag along so he could watch the practice – gazing admiringly at a cute boy flying expertly around the field in a futile attempt to catch a golden orb might actually make him feel better. But both of his best friends are players for the rival teams, and Simon knows that his presence won't be welcome. House unity only goes so far.

Bram, currently, seems to be struggling with something, his eyes boring into his cup of pumpkin juice as if it can hold a conversation. "Simon…" he starts, and his voice rises and falls like a radio signal, "it's, uh, none of my business." He swallows thickly. What he's doing seems to almost physically pain him, but he soldiers on. Simon can't help but feel impressed. "Have you decided…" he trails off, then shakes himself, and continues, "about what Martin wants from you."

Simon bites his lower lip, hard. This is why he did not want to sit here, with some hetero dude judging him for hiding, for helping Blue hide. "I'm not sure that –"

"I'm not judging, I swear!" Bram cuts him off, and it's the most decisive Simon has ever heard him. "I'm just wondering. It can't be easy." He seems to come to a decision. "If you want to talk about it…"

Simon shakes his head. "It's not just about me," he forces out, "if I'm outed. I can't just do what I want here, I don't –"

Bram's eyes are wide, and he opens his mouth to speak, but Simon can't, anymore, he can't. "Please," he says, "please don't tell anyone. I know it's a shitty thing to do, what he asks – I know, but please."

"Woah, Simon, no," Bram raises his hand so quickly it hits Simon's glasses, knocking them of his nose and into a bowl of oatmeal. "Shit. Sorry, I'm sorry."

Simon, on his part, can't help but laugh, just a bit, as Bram fishes his glasses and cleans them with a napkin, before handing them back to him. "It's okay."

"I won't tell anyone." Bram says, then, and there's a gravity to his voice, and Simon believes him, truly, he does, but he still feels like shit. It won't go away, probably it's not going to. Probably, Bran can make an Unbreakable Oath to him, and Simon will still be feeling like shit. On pure impulse, Simon turns to look Bram in the eye, almost knocking his coffee of the table with his elbow, and watches as Bram breathes, slowly, through his nose, the way his chest rises, then falls.

"What would you have done?" he asks quietly, as if that's the secret, as if that's what matters here.

Bram opens his mouth, then closes it. This was a terrible idea. 

"Forget it, you don't have to – "     

"No, I – give me a second –"

"Simon? Merlin, what are you doing up?" It's Garret, annoyingly cheerful, making his way towards them, with Nick in toe. "Is Greenfield's masochism actually catching?"

Behind him, Nick casually raises a single eyebrow. Simon just shrugs. "Couldn't sleep."

Garret seems unfazed by this. "We're here to spy on your practice." He tells Bram happily, taking a sit to his left.

"Naturally," Bram answer, deadpan. He sends Simon A Look – an apology? Whatever it is, Simon attempts a smile – _don't worry about it man_ , and _please forget I ever asked you for advice regarding the blackmail situation I'm in, man_ , and then turns to Nick, who's tie is draped around his neck like a scarf, and who asks to borrow Simon's owl for something later today.

"Ah," Simon starts awkwardly, "Bieber is actually out right now." And has yet to return with a reply. Not that Simon is anxiously waiting, or anything.

Bram has to leave for practice, then, stumbling his way out of his chair to the protest of everyone (they are just a bunch of Gryffindors and a Hufflepuff sitting at the Ravenclaw table now, after all) and Simon waves him goodbye.

 Blue does not contact him for the rest of the day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me on tumblr right [here!](http://briefly-be.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

_Dear Blue,_

_This is actually sort of hilarious. You're telling me no one noticed you transforming the pictures in literally all your books? How does that happen? Why are grown-ups so oblivious? They're raising little witches and wizards, but like, no, it's a printing mistake who caused this book about vampires to have pictures of cats. What four-year-old kid wants to hear bout vampires? Really, what were they thinking?_

_As for my first instance of magic… You know, I'm actually not sure. I'm told by my parents that I was this very agitated, magic-induced kid. I wouldn't say that I was careless, because I wasn't aware that I was doing anything, really, but accidents would happen around me and nobody will know whether it was at fault or not. Like, stacks of books that were blocking my way to the couch would scatter, or the building blocks that my big sister wouldn't let me play with would drop. I used to make our dog levitate by accident, like Nana from Peter Pan (you know, that Muggle story?). That was Definitely me._

_Of, here's a good one. I know that when I was really young – about six or Seven, I turned my dress-robes into a honest-to-god dress. We visited London, as a family, and my parent are very into… assimilating with Muggle Culture, I guess. Or they're just history nerds, who knows. But they took us to see The Tower, with the entirety of its fancy ball gowns and crown jewels. And So then when they told me and my sisters that we were all getting dress robes for my cousin's wedding I was sure that this is what we were getting – you know, a Cinderella Gown, or whatever._

_So when I received this plain, blue robe that seemed exactly like my everyday clothes I sort of – transformed it. It was insane, I probably could never achieve that sort of magic these days. It sparkled, Blue. I swear to God. I mean, who does that?_

_Okay, I can't believe I just told you that. Did you at least find it funny? I'm told my father did not stop laughing, on and off, for about two hours. He still brings it up every time we go shopping._

_Mortifyingly yours,_

_Jacque_

 

Assuming that all things are equal, Bram would not change Jacque's identity or give up his letters. That is to say, he would not unknow Simon in any way. That is to say, Bram would cross continents and fight empires in order to hold on to Simon, as is. That is to say, Bram would sneak into Troy inside a Horse Shaped Closet, but won't ever get out. He's a goddamn inspiration.

He also could not care less about the goddamn Snitch, and as the Seeker, that turns out to be a problem. There is no one here to beat him, per se, no rival team to undermine his half-hearted efforts, but there is something about this – this cutting aimless through the sky, eyes unfocused, hands almost slack on top of his broom, taking in the icy morning air, that makes him feel – well. Of course he's unable to find the goddamn snitch. Of course he's unable to support Simon to through his troubles. Of course he's unable to think about anybody but himself, and the sunken, dark pit of paranoia in his chest, threatening to swallow him whole.

Flying does not make him feel any better. He knows it's supposed to be therapeutic – you're supposed to breath in the fresh morning air into your lungs and let the wind carry you into unknown horizons, and stuff like that. But Bram is very much aware of having Charms on third period. He's very much aware to sharing the class with Freakin' Martin Addison. Was anyone besides Bram ever been blackmailed by extension? That is, without the blackmailer knowing? Probably yes, but Bram still feels all special kind of screwed.

There is nothing he can do, is the thing. Using his so-called authority did not help – nor did he really expect it to. But was he supposed to do nothing? To just leave Simon alone to deal with the asshole blackmailing him over Bram? Surely the moronic thing was the only thing to be done, at least this time. Surely, it's better that Simon is not alone in this, that Bram has some form of control over the situation, even though he is spiraling, spiraling, spiraling. A Bludger almost hits him right then and there, whistling past him and just barely missing his left shoulder, which seems about right.

What was he supposed to do though? Pretend it doesn't concern him? That Simon leaving their letters in the library for anyone to see is just – not completely terrifying? That Bram, looking at Martin Addison's stupid face, has never felt so exposed in his life, and Bram is a Black Gay Jew living in Europe, so that's saying something? That he doesn't want to hug Simon as much as he wants to shake him into a state of vigilance? Like, constant vigilance. Mad Eye Moody levels of vigilance – for real. Except Bran has spent the last three years of his life in that sort of state, and he can't ask this from another person. Except Bram has been wanting to run his hand through Simon's hair, to make Simon laugh, for the past three years, except the two are interconnected, somehow, and he can't quite believe that –

He almost runs into Jeremy, one of the chasers, and they both almost fall of their brooms and into the springy, wet grass, so that's… awesome. Bram is in outstanding shape, clearly,

Assuming that all things are equal, would he still post the fucking message in Merlin's Secrets? Probably. There is very little to be done about cutting someone Bram cares about out of his life, about cutting off Simon Spier. And there is no time turner big enough to fix this mess, anyway. 

 

Bram spends the rest of the day distracted, searching, thinking – it's outrageous, truly, that Simon Spier is Jacque, and Bram is unable to be properly happy, to feel – properly – well, not in love, but something that runs along that spectrum. He feels dizzy – from talking to Simon, from the flight. Once, a rival team found out that Bram gets nauseated easily, and spent an entire game flying in summersaults around the pitch, trying to get Bram to follow his lead, while a beater kept throwing the bludger in his direction, forcing him to fly in strange angles, to twist and sweat and cut through uncooperative wind. Bram had lost that game, and spent fifteen minutes afterwards throwing up in the bushes. This is how he feels, right about now. As if he's lost something he wanted for being useless, and now there is very little to be done.

Simon takes both Charms and Transfiguration with him, and Bram feels – breathless, stressed, all weak knees and sweaty palms. Simon is - well, he's funny, but in this way that's also kind, and witty; he wasn't a joker or a clown His hair is messy to an extent that Bram likes, and he's smart, he has this way of thinking that – Bram feels like he could probably make Simon laugh, like they could be laughing together. Like Simon has amazing cheekbones and shoulders, and this voice, that always echo in Bram's mind, that feels bright somehow, like the sun catches to it.

So this should have been a good thing. It should have. Probably still is. Except that he is lying. He is actively lying to Simon. Simon is miserable and fraught by moral consequences and Bram understands, he understands the predicament of only having one, terrible option, because you're you. That feeling, of knowing that only if you were braver, there would have been other, better options. But Bram isn't even sure how that would work. He can't really picture it. He can't –

Okay, here is a list of things that Bram cannot do:

  1. He can't tell Jacque who he is, even though that's unfair, since he knows who Jacque is.
  2. He can't advise Simon not to succumb to blackmail, to tell someone, to ask for help, even though that's the right thing to do, even though someone properly – neutral, would have found out about this, he could probably properly help, while Bram is simply – selfish. He's selfish, and frozen, and scared.
  3. He can't stop writing to Simon. He can't not enjoy the way Simon is trying to protect him. He can't not be happy about this. About how Simon is Jacque. There is something shimmering in Bram's chest, beneath everything, the dread and confusion and that part of him that's only ever looking for some peace of mind, that reacts to Simon, that almost aches for him.



It's a crappy list. Simon avoids looking at him throughout the entire class. Not in the usual, you're inconsequential to me, way. In a way that's deliberate. Bram is sad, and Bram is tired. Bram manages to sober up his drunken leprechaun ("How can we experiment on magical beings?" Leah Burke had said. "How can we use FAIRIES as decor? You know when Hermione Granger founded SPEW she did it because she believed that we can all do better –"), fortunately before said leprechaun jams his foot into Bram's nose, and spends the rest of the class staring into space, at nothing in particular, just… aware of him. Of Simon. Aware, and jumping slightly at the sound of his voice. Aware, and wishing he could speak with him. Realizing with a start that he can. It's time to write Jacque, probably. It's not as if he was ever going to stop.

 

There is a certain amount of work that goes into anonymous letter writing. Bram has a father who's taken a muggle as a second wife, Bram doesn't take Muggle studies, but he knows that Muggles has far better methods – machines that type out your words, that send your letters outward without leaving any footprint in the physical realm. His father tried teaching him to use a computer once, except it didn't go very well. Nothing about the system was intuitive to him, and something about Bram seemed to shut the machine down. It doesn't matter; no such machine will ever function at Hogwarts, and anyway, why would he have one? No, instead, as a superior magical being, he's using owls. School owls, as to remain hidden. There is also a spell that disguises his hand writing. Hogwarts owls does not deal with the concept of sending letter inside the actual castle very well, it turns out (that's what house elves and fire places are for, after all) but Bram manages. They have their own mailbox,  Jacque and him,  but Bram can't be seen walking near it. It's almost absurd.

He supposes that charade could end now that technically, he can find an owl and say: Bring this piece of parchment to Simon Spier, except that he can't, not really. And it's so much work, is the thing – this letter exchange. It's so much work but it's like it's the most natural thing in the world, like he can’t possibly act any different, ever, and now, as he knows who Jacque is, it feels less like hiding and more like lying. He's lying, he supposes. He supposes the decent thing to do was to reveal his identity and face Martin with Simon, together, as a pair. But that's not what Bram did.

He considers this – the mechanics of the closet, like their princesses locked in a tower, like their soldier running from war – as he attaches his new letter to Jacque to the leg of a small, brown owl, and give him the mailbox number. Simon will receive a magical notification that orders him to pick up the letter. They both trust each other not to spy. It's wholly imperfect. It's also half-way to pointless, right about now. The decent thing to do would be to tell him, but Bram's isn't sure it means that this is what he should actually do. He doesn't think that it would help. That he would be able to function in a way that will do Simon any good. That Simon will think that it was all worth it, the way that Bram does.

He's not sure, really, that Jacque and him will last long enough for this to bite him in the ass.

 

Garret drags Bram to sit a t the Slytherin Table at dinner, where Leah is currently engaged in an argument with Nick, and an animated Abby is attempting unsuccessfully to gouge Simon into a state that resemble his normally social self.

"I mean, you haven't eaten anything all day."  She reproaches him, and Bram wonders how close they actually are, that she's aware of this. What percentage of the day they spend together. How do you earn that sort of status.

"Sure I did," Simon answers easily.

"Oreos don't count." Abby insists. Which, point.

"Sure they do," Simon says, smiling slightly, "Oreos are the most significant food group of them all. Plus," he goes on, though, relenting, he allows Abby to shove a piece of toast into his hand, "Plus, if you go to the kitchens and ask nicely, house elves will fry them for you."

Bram stares down at his plate, blinking hard. It's everywhere. Simon's existence. The evidence of him being… It truly is. Bram wishes that he would be more careful. He wishes that Simon would sit closer to him. He wishes he could stop thinking about it, just for a moment.

"How do you even get Muggle candy?" Garret asks, in a tone that's part interested, and part bewildered. Garret never understood any fascination with muggle society. Most wizards hadn't. "Also why," there it is. "Hogsmeade is right there." 

"Leah," Simon replies immediately. Then, "And you wouldn't understand. So few would." And he smiles, and he's not looking at Bram, and Bram is looking at him. It's the circle of life.

Bram bites his lower lip, hard, feeling extremely exposed all of the sudden. It happens, from time to time, and he feels the urge to – disappear; to speak only in foreign tongue, to close his eyes and close his mouth and close the door and –

"Hey," he says, casually, "does anyone remember that spell from fifth year Charms? The Encryption Spell?"

Simon turns to him, very suddenly, eyes wide.  Bram swallows, then forces himself to continue. "I would like to analyze it, from Arithmancy. It just came to me now, and I'm blacking out on –" he swallows again. "Yeah, sorry, never mind, I can just look it up myself."

Simon keeps staring at him, eyes pale and huge, and Bram is being so obvious, surely. Surely Simon suspects, surely –

"I could help," Simon tells him, and he's doing this sudden, jerky motion with his hand, led by his elbow, and he has zero swagger, so why is Bram so charmed? "I need to visit the library anyway. Essays. Tons of essays. Research."

"Ah, sure." That was not the plan. The plan was for Simon to go and look for the spell himself, quietly, the way Bram would have done.   

"Great!" Simon says, "Great. We can go after dinner. When you're done."

"Ah, Simon." Leah glares at him slightly. "Not that I don't appreciate your new found motivation for school work, but – there is a meeting for the paper tonight? You know, the paper that you founded with me?" She raises both her eyebrows, and Simon sort of – deflates, under her gaze.

"Right," he sighs. "Right. Some other time, then."

That's, of course, when Garret chooses to speak, an event that usually bodes badly for Bram. "You know," he interjects, while shoving half a roll of bread into his mouth, "The fact that you didn't take Greenfield to write for you is insane. He knows so much about Muggle-Wizard relations, he did this paper for professor Binns that –"

That's when Bram kicks him under the table like he was a freakin' football, and Garret spills pumpkin juice all over the rest of his roll. It's well deserved, as far as Bram is concerned.

Simon, however, is turning curious grey eyes towards Bram, so damage done. "Bram never applied," he says slowly, as if in thought. "Right, Leah? No way we would have turned you down." He finishes reassuringly. Bram wonders then, cringing, whether Simon is honest to God afraid of Bram. Of not being nice to him. Of another blackmail. It's a pretty horrible thought.

"Well, yeah, seeing as we had like, five applicants and we didn't turn anybody down," Leah shrugs. "What was your paper about?"

Bram bites his lower lip. Freakin' Garret. "Ah, it was an essay. And it wasn't that good, Binns gave me an A. Acceptable."  

"Just because you dared to think for yourself –"

"Garret." Bram cuts him off, voice terse. He's tense all over, legs numb and chest cold. Simon is still looking at him. He sighs, deeply. "I was too busy, that's why I didn't apply." He says quietly. "I was just appointed prefect, and I have quidditch, and about six electives, so I was just being –" a pause. "Careful with how I distributed my time." He's out of breath, by the end. It seems to him that he's been speaking for the past ten hours, and then somehow still saying nothing.

Leah opens her mouth to reply just as Bram continues. "It was about how minority struggles within the wizarding community stems from similar struggles within the muggle community." He finally admits. Whatever. He stands by it. It was a good paper. "You know, for rights of minorities that are in both communities, like people pf color, and LGBT people…" he trails off, then panics. Bram never utters a sentence that ends in the word Gay. It's never a final note. He's terrified of staying alone with it. "Women, too." He adds.

"Oh," Simon blurts out.

"The way Democracy did," Bram explains, "Ah, because there is usually inter connection between those communities, right? Like how Jewish people still sometimes live near other Jewish people sometimes, as oppose to near other wizards, so they're aware of what's happening, there's a transfer of ideas, plus muggle communities are bigger so sometime problems start there simply because of sheer size…" he swallows, and finds that it's over – his monologue, that is, the length of his voice. He can say more, about why this is important to him, about why it gives him hope, but he doesn't have the power in him, to make this personal, to lay his gay-black-jew cards on the table of a European country and say: "Look, here I am." He carries with pride his skin and his name, he expresses his sexuality with ink, and that's enough for now. Except that Simon is still looking at him, his expression inscrutable, and Bram is going insane.

"Wow, Bram." It takes him a while to understand that it's Abby who speaks. She sounds impressed, which does little for Bram's current and most urgent goal: to disappear. "We would love to publish that if you would let us –"

"You're not making publishing decisions," Leah cuts her off, voice harsh. She then turns to Bram, and, a little softer, concede: "We would love to publish it."

Bram shrugs. "I don't think so, it really wasn't very good." A Lie. Whatever, at least it's only about his own merits.

Then Simon opens his mouth to speak, and Bram decides that he is done.

"I have to go, actually. Homework. Ah, good luck with the paper today." He quickly gets up, gathering his things. Then, as not to appear rude, he adds, without looking at him, "Simon, we'll schedule a time to study?" He attempts a smile, though he's not sure Simon can see it. And then the Great Hall is behind him, and he's gone, and he can breathe again.

His hands are clenched into fists, nails digging into his skin. He wishes, sometimes, that he could act like a different person, but can't perceive how. He can't imagine a scenario of him being anything different, can't see a way out of himself. He sighs, thinking, begrudgingly, about his study date with Simon. He's lying to him. It's a pretty big lie. He turns of the direction of the common room instead of the library, and then, sitting atop his bed, enclosed on blue silk, writes a letter that makes him feel a little better – real, present inside his own body. He then crumples up the paper, and starts all over again.  

 

      

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr right [here!](http://briefly-be.tumblr.com/)


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